Sam explains to me there is a concave mirror
in the base of the sun that concentrates
the rays from the larger lighter moon
to warm our hours when the moon’s asleep.

I ask Sam about his sister
and he switches and twitches
his tail and the light in his
eyes is not Mercy.

The elections of yesterday
have gone unreported
among the almond trees.
I drop the twigs and sticks
upon the growing pile
and would light it
had I matches.

I have the Gaelic
but only in boxes
not near enough my tongue.

Samuel is good at ellipses
but Meg, his sister, excels.
She says volumes with each
silence, and cares
little that no sheep
partake of grass among
the goats.

‘Don’t blacken me with pot,’
I say to Sam.

Meg pretends to listen
but her ears are on
other frequencies
and spiders are unsafe.Meg is hunting moths tonight,
leaping at nothing in the dark
and returning with munchies.
I hear her chew them but
I did not hear her land.